


Red Dust

by greenripper (OracleGlass)



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1930s, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-22
Updated: 2009-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-05 01:09:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/36105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleGlass/pseuds/greenripper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a sweet-talking conman blows through town, Gracie Pelton discovers that being a good girl has its limitations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

To be honest, Patrick Janovy wasn't sure this place even qualified as a one-horse town. Maybe, if the townspeople got together and pooled their resources, they might be able to scrape up half a horse, or perhaps a very small donkey. But here he was, nonetheless, somewhere in the bowels of Missouri, looking to see if there was any action to be had. A couple of days to kill along the road meant boredom, but perhaps the opportunity for earning a few extra dollars here and there would present itself.

He had managed to brush off most of the road dust from his suit, and was now ambling slowly around what passed for Main Street in this part of the world. There was a small general store – promising, except the woman behind the counter had sharp piggy eyes, and would be difficult to sweeten up. A feed store, a bit more of a challenge, but perhaps. He'd get a newspaper tomorrow, check the obits, see if there was any action to be had. A little diner caught his eye, and he decided to settle on a cup of coffee for now, and maybe make a little change if the cashier looked sweet and simple.

The busty woman with the bad peroxide job behind the counter clearly enjoyed having a handsome man in her establishment, judging from the cooing and fluttering as she escorted him to a table, took his order for coffee (and talked him into a slice of rhubarb pie as well) and sashayed back behind the counter to gossip with the fry cook about the stranger in town. She'd be an easy mark, he thought, leaning back in his chair and sipping gingerly at the slightly bitter coffee. A nice, easy mark, and maybe a warm armful for later on, if he didn't find anything more promising. And to be honest, he'd rather not have an angry farmer howling for his blood, so it was probably just as well he stick to the easy pickings and leave the virtuous daughters alone.

He dawdled too long, however, and the afternoon light gradually began to slant away and throw him into shadow. Part of his thoughts were considerations about what the future would hold, as well as an assessment of whether or not he had run afoul of any local law in nearby towns. A casual observer would have noted the frown and wondered if he were another businessman teetering on the edge, perhaps about to fall from comfortable prosperity into dirt-eating poverty. By the time he lifted himself out of his chair and strolled up to the counter, Blondie had been replaced by a cool-looking redhead, who appraised him with absolutely no friendly sparkle. He set about himself to change that, flashing her his winningest smile and putting a little extra warmth in his voice.

"Hey there, angel. No smile for me? Boy, is this ever a cold town. What do I owe you?"

Red brushed a nonexistent fleck of lint from the collar of her faded cotton blouse, and did not visibly thaw. "Thirty-five cents, mister."

"Got change for a ten?" He slipped effortlessly into the patter of the change game, pulling out his wallet and preparing to follow the old call-and-response. But instead of obliging him, the girl narrowed her eyes, snapped, "Don't you try that on me," and made no move to get him change.

Vaguely hurt by how easily she had read him, he said, "Try what on you, miss? What cause do you have to be hard-hearting me like that? All I did was come in and have a cup of coffee and you act like I'm a criminal!"

"Smile all you like, mister. You've got thirty-five cents on you, and I can't make change. I've seen all those tricks and I won't be some chicken for you to pluck!"

Patrick regarded her steadily, the smile still creasing his eyes, but Red remained adamant, her eyes lowered. "We-el. They do say redheads have a temper, don't they? Here's your thirty-five cents, miss. And just between us?"

She finally looked him in the eye, and he winked broadly at her. "I never try to play things off on the smart ones."

He left, whistling, and felt her eyes follow him all the way out the door.


	2. Red Dust

The next morning, he discovered he wasn't in such a rush to leave town. The hotel bed wasn't as lumpy as he thought it would be, the view out his window of the dreary little Main Street looked a bit more cheerful. And when he found himself back in the restaurant for breakfast, seeing Red there put a little bit of a bounce into his step. Of course, the glare she leveled at him might have frozen boiling lava, but small setbacks like that never stopped him.

"Hey there, Red," he hailed her. She seemed a little taken aback by his broad smile (a woman in Tulsa had once described it as "dripping melted butter") so he kept it on his face as he met her at the counter. "By the way, my name's Janovy, Patrick Janovy. You know, I never did get yours." He beamed at her like the sun from behind a cloud. The fry cook, who had stuck his head out to listen with interest, offered, "That's Gracie Pelton. She don't play 'round, mister, I'd give it up and just have some of my griddle cakes. She won't warm you up, but they will."

Gracie whirled to hiss angrily at the cook. "You shut your mouth, Clem!" Clem, barely abashed, drew his head back through his window, chuckling.

Patrick asked for coffee and a stack of griddle cakes, and sat down at the same table near the window that he had occupied last night. When Gracie came to bring him his food, he waited until she had put down the plate and closed his hand over her wrist. She jerked it back, but he held on, trying to soothe her.

"Just wait a minute, Red. I don't mean you any harm. I just need to ask you a question. Will you stay here and let me ask it?" He released her hand, and she rubbed it sulkily, but stayed next to him.

"How did you know what I was thinking, yesterday? You said you've seen all the tricks...what did you mean by that?"

She turned her head to make sure the cook wasn't watching them, and bent her head down. Seeing her pale porcelain cheek so near gave him interesting ideas, but he held back. She still hadn't spoken, so he made sure his face was utterly still, with just his eyes to hint at how interested he was. People liked to confide in him, and he expected she would come around to it.

She gave a small huff, pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, and said, "My daddy was on the grift. He was gone a lot, but when he was home he'd show me and my brother some of the tricks, when momma wasn't around. She thought he was a salesman, and I guess he was, mostly, but he also wasn't above adding a little bit here and there when he knew he couldn't get caught. My brother and I used to practice on each other. So if you think you've got anything in your back of tricks that can fool me, you've got another think coming, Mister Janovy."

"Well, well. Fancy that. Your daddy was in my line of work, huh?" He retrieved her hand, and turned it over to make sure he hadn't bruised it, then brought it to his lips to brush a kiss over the slightly reddened spot where his fingers had pressed. "Ever think about getting into the life yourself? A lovely woman like you could have people eating out of her hand. And frankly, I think you might be wasting yourself in this little spot on the road."

Gracie pulled her hand away and almost...almost cocked it back for a slap across his face. But she caught herself in time, and, seeing the light in his eyes that said he had been expecting something along those lines, she instead straightened and smoothed down her skirt. With magnificent dignity, she said simply, "If you'll excuse me, Mister Janovy, I've got other things to be doing than waiting on you." She spun and walked briskly back into the kitchen, where he heard her scolding the cook for something. Jane laughed quietly to himself, polished off his breakfast, and left money on the counter. Thinking for a moment, he pulled the stub of a pencil and scrap of paper from his pocket, scrawled a note, and left it tucked under the coins. He had a feeling about Red. A very good feeling. It had been a long time since he had met anyone who had attracted him like she did. He had always been inclined to take people apart like a clockwork, and Gracie's unexpectedly colorful history and her air of wistful purity buried under all that ice was entirely appealing. He put his hat on and strolled out the door, resembling a cat in cream even moreso than usual.


	3. Red Dust

He saw her sitting in the hotel lobby, head bowed, her profile a lovely thing in the lamplight. She had come, after all. Then again, he hadn't really doubted she would. He could read curiosity radiating off her like strong perfume. She had gone to a little trouble about her dress, but managed to imply that she hadn't thought it necessary to impress him - it was good, but not fancy, and the pert, saucer-shaped hat she wore was wonderfully flattering, but was also a model from a few years ago. She heard his step and looked up, her expression serene, but he could tell how nervous she was by the way she was fussing with her gloves, smoothing them over the backs of her hands.

 

"I wonder, Mr. Janovy, what I was thinking to meet you." She studied him like an insect on a pin, and he stood still to let her finish surveying him. He had made an effort to look good without drawing too much attention; his slacks were sharply creased and his shirt was crisp and unwrinkled, but a little fraying around the elbows and knees kept him from looking like he stepped out of a bandbox.

"You agreed to meet me, Miss Pelton, because you are bored silly by this tragic little town. So bored that the prospect of a night at the fair was just too enticing to pass up. And, may I point out, I am a perfectly respectable person to escort you there." He ignored her little amused snort at the word "respectable," and continued, "Furthermore, I am not deaf, dumb, or halt, I have all my limbs attached where they ought to be, no hideous burns that will make people stare, and, in fact, am generally considered handsome by ladies in all walks of life. So nobody will point and stare at us, or assume we are among the freaks from the midway."

A cautious smile had crept over her lips. "Mr. Janovy, I have no doubt that you have presented yourself to many ladies for their approval." She stood, hesitated momentarily when he offered her his arm, and finally took it. He patted her hand, bestowed on her a fatuous smile that actually made her giggle, and escorted her out the door to his car, a sleek convertible coupe that had faithfully carried him through most of the country. The fair had set up in a big pasture slightly northwest of town, and as they motored down the narrow road through the fields, the stars overhead were bleached away by the blaze of electric light rising up from the outline of tents, stalls, and rides. They could hear the carousel playing tinnily, and Patrick noticed that Gracie's reserved smile had melted into an excited grin. He grinned as well, and hit the gas, sending the big car leaping over the roads.

The fairground smelled like sawdust and cheap booze and cotton candy. Peanut shells crunched underfoot, and small children seemed to be everywhere, hooting and racing around in small packs. They walked around aimlessly for a while, observing the people around them while passing by them mostly unnoticed. Patrick chose a dart game (least likely to be rigged, he declared) and won Gracie a kewpie doll that she laughed at and tucked into her purse. They ate hot dogs, and walked past the cloth signs advertising Snake Charming Ladies and Petrified Men. Patrick winked at a tiny girl sitting on the ground playing with a tin whistle, while her mother flirted with the greasy looking fellow running the shooting gallery. Father, no doubt, was off watching the hootchie-coo dancers for the fourth time that night. As they strolled, Gracie had seemed content to mostly stay arm in arm with Patrick, the warm weight of her arm pressing against his forearm. He did nothing to startle her, seemingly enjoying the role of perfect gentleman to the point where she wondered if she had misread him as badly as that. Her questions were answered when, suddenly, as they rounded the corner of an empty game stall, Patrick stopped, pulled her back into the shadows, tipped up her chin, and kissed her soundly. She stiffened with surprise for a moment, then her arms twined around his neck and she was pulling him closer as his tongue traced the outline of her lower lip. He ran his hands down the sides of her body, feeling every curve through her thin dress, and pulled her hips against him, letting her feel his erection and making her gasp against his mouth. He pressed her back against the flimsy wooden wall, kissed her jawline up to her ear and, soft as soft, murmured, "I want you to do something for me."

She sighed softly against his neck. "What?" Her voice was husky, and he felt a mad rush of excitement shoot through his veins.

He pulled back, looking into her face with that same mad grin she had seen earlier. "Con somebody for me."


	4. Red Dust

She leaned back, scowling. "Not funny, Patrick. First of all, it was my daddy on the grift, not me. And second of all..." she trailed off.

"You're a good girl who doesn't do that sort of thing?"

"Yes! I mean...well, not that I don't do it. I've never done it. I was a kid, learning tricks and mostly just enjoying spending time with my father before he was off on the road again. My momma died, and I saw him even less, because we were sent to her folk in Arkansas. And never once did I try anything, even when we were really hurting for money."

He caught the lie by her voice and the way her mouth quirked. "Never, ever? Not even once?"

She flushed red from collar to hairline. "I...I..."

"Good grifter can always catch a lie, sweetheart. Tell me all about it. No, even better. Show me."

"I don't...I can't...oh, fine then!" She shoved her purse at him. "Hold this. You utter bastard." All her previous reserve was gone. She looked fully alive now, filled with the same wicked mischief that he recognized in himself.

He waited, purse in hand, and watched as she scouted an empty pop bottle out of a trash barrel, along with a relatively clean paper bag. Walking back behind the empty stall, she placed the bottle on the ground, and, with the help of a sizable rock, smashed the bottle into several pieces and shoveled the remains into the bag, folding the top over neatly.

"Are you," said Patrick, wide-eyed with glee, "going to do what I think you're going to do?"

"Rule number one my daddy taught me. Don't pull really big cons too near home. Too many people who know who you are. This is a bitty thing I'm going to do, but I hope it lives up to your professional standards."

"Oh, darling," he drawled. "I'm beginning to think I don't have a standard you can't live up to."

She grabbed his hand and walked back out into the midway, drawing them within the vicinity of a stall they had passed earlier, where the prizes for shooting targets had been cheap little glass bud vases. Standing off to one side, she watched the crowd, and settled on a well-dressed and absolutely giant man, half-drunk on beer and towing a tiny blond woman along behind him as he plowed his way through the crowd. Gracie stepped artfully out in front of him, and went down in a beautifully played heap, shrieking piteously as the bag she was carrying shed glass all over the sawdust.

"Oh, oh, oh," she wailed. "And Patrick just won that for me, the first time ever I've had something so pretty!" Suddenly she looked younger, and even her voice was different - more backwoodsy, somehow. Patrick, never slow on a cue, knelt to drape a comforting arm around her shoulders, fixing the large man, who had come to a confused stop, with a look that accused him of being the type to kick a dog. "There there, darling," he soothed. "I'll try my best, I can get you another one, I guess." He scratched his head, playing country bumpkin.

"But it was such a special night tonight, and you played so many times before you won. And now it's all smashed to bits!" Her eyes were fixed reproachfully on the man, who had begun to shift from side to side. The blonde woman beside him surveyed the scene and snapped, "Oh, honestly, Fred. You're such a clod." She snapped open her purse, pulled out a dollar, and handed it to Gracie, who took it and gazed at it it like she had been given a diamond ring. "You go buy yourself a nice trinket now, girlie. None of the trash these thieves give out as prizes, something nice, mebbee at the store in town." Gracie stumbled over herself thanking the woman, who nodded kindly at her, grabbed her husband by the wrist and hauled him off down the street, scolding him with every step.

Patrick stood up and helped Gracie to her feet, naked admiration shining in his eyes. "You, my dear, are a regular twelve-day wonder, you are. You were born to do this."

Gracie studied the dollar in her hands with unadulterated pride. "Hmmp. I honestly expected them to offer me a dime, and leave it at that."

****

Ten minutes later, he had pulled off the side of the road in a small grove of trees, and was fucking her against the hood of his car.

She was just as exhilarated as he was, thrusting eagerly back against him as his hands slid up her thighs, bumping over where her stocking clips bit into the white flesh of her thighs. He rubbed her through her panties and she made a noise deep in her throat, her legs opening to let him in wherever he wanted to go. He pushed the wet scrap of cloth to one side and slid two fingers deep inside her, rubbing her clit with his thumb, enjoying the noises he could coax out of her, and she lay back, gasping, begging for more. With one hand, he fumbled open his fly and rubbed his cock against her, then, with a grunt, was inside her, pumping slowly at first. She cried out, and wrapped her legs around his waist to pull him more forcefully against her, demanding as much as he could give. He pinned her down against the car, holding her in place as he fucked into her, gasping with every thrust.

She came first, shuddering violently, her hands squeaking against the metal, and he almost came with her, holding himself back with gritted teeth.

"Don't...intend to give you anything you don't want to carry, darling," he growled. He slid out of her, with the vague idea of coming on her belly or thighs. To his surprise, she dropped to her knees, still panting with her own orgasm, and said, "Let me" in a tone that brooked no argument. He staggered back against the car to keep him upright as her hot mouth closed over his cock, one hand wrapped around the shaft. Her tongue was doing something purely delicious, and he closed one hand in her hair, said, "Oh my fucking god," and came like a mountain falling.

*****

It was a slightly more disheveled pair, returning to town, but luckily no-one was in the streets to see them. Gracie pulled a comb from her purse and restored herself to order, then quickly brushed Patrick's blond curls into place. He watched her sashay into her boarding house, knowing he was looking at her, and when he returned to his hotel he stretched out on his bed, smiling absently at the ceiling as he thought about the future.

The next day, he pulled out of town, Gracie sitting pertly in the passenger seat, a small battered cardboard suitcase in the back of the car.

"Just you wait, girl," he promised her. "Nothing but good times ahead."

She smiled, catlike, and echoed him, "Nothing but good times."


End file.
